


Tactile

by Cardinal_Daughter



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Character Study, Drama, Ignores Episode 26, M/M, No Spoilers, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-21 23:29:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15568725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cardinal_Daughter/pseuds/Cardinal_Daughter
Summary: Molly likes to touch. It reminds him that he's alive.





	Tactile

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short little character study on Mollymauk. 
> 
> This doesn't really happen at any particular point, so there aren't really any spoilers for anything major that's happened recently. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy. Apologies for any errors.

**Tactile**

 

Mollymauk likes to touch. It reminds him that he’s alive.

He likes to crumble dirt between his fingers- a reminder of where he’s been and what he came from. He likes to feel it solid beneath his feet as he walks; a comfort that he won’t sink back under just yet. He likes to feel it in large clumps in his hands; takes satisfaction in the feel of it dissolving into dust and slipping through his fingers. Likes how it makes his hands rougher when he brushes them together to shake off the remnants as he watches the bits scatter into the wind. He feels as if he’s conquered death once more.

  
He likes to caress the blades of grass next to him as he lies in his bedroll after a long day of travel and fighting. To feel the cool dew and the strange sturdiness of the blades as his hand brushes over greenery, coating his hand with dampness as they bend and snap back into place. Ever-growing, untamable, covered by snow for a season but able to spring back the next, stronger and just as vibrant than before. Molly wonders if he shines brighter now than before he clawed his way out of an unmarked grave.

*

He enjoys the hard smoothness of his blades as they slide across his skin, the sharp sting a reminder that he lives; the trickle of blood sliding down his neck or his arms tickling in a way that juxtaposes the familiar throb of pain from split skin. He relishes the feeling, the pain and the pleasure that follows as he charges forward, often blindly, into the fray, each cut and bruise screaming with life.

*

He enjoys the finer things in life, too. The buttery softness of leather; how rough it can become after time and abuse. The rough prickles that scratch his hands once the leather has cracked, reminding him of how one’s skin might feel after too many seasons- seasons he may never live to see.  
  
The heavy warmth of velvet and the airy softness of silk are also pleasant. He likes to rub them over his arms and face, memorizing the texture against his skin, relishing in the soft and the warm.  
  
He enjoys the feeling of a warm bowl of stew in his hands, hearty and filling and cherished after living on road rations for days and weeks. Enjoys the toughness of the meat between his teeth, the slide of potatoes against his tongue, the scalding hot broth that burns and leaves rough bumps all along the muscle. The mixture of the flavors bursting in his mouth as he tries not to shovel heaping spoonfuls in as if it were his last meal.  
  
He treats every meal as if it might be his last; they taste better that way. Richer, bolder.

*

Hot baths are a treat that thankfully aren’t as rare as they once were. Mollymauk revels in the scalding hot water as it sloshes around him, hot enough to sting the skin but so soothingly warm that he can’t help but sink down into the large bath despite the pain. Enjoys the smooth, fresh feel of soap foaming over his bruised skin; feels how it slides off him as he cups water in his hands, half of it slipping through pruney fingers, and splashes it over him, the suds escaping into the pool around him, shimmering in the candle light before movement or time causes each one to burst. The warmed towel wrapped around him as he emerges, shielding only part of him from the cool air of the changing room is a pleasant sensation as well; to be both warm and cool, to feel two so opposing sensations at once is a pleasure he takes with thoughtful consideration. He categorizes where he is warm and where he is not; tries to see where one ends and the other begins. It’s a curious game, but it’s yet another reminder that he’s been given another day to absorb as much as he can.

He wants to feel everything.

               *                     

He enjoys the feeling of a mug of ale in his hands, because so often it is accompanied by the feeling of friends pressing against him in the cramped booth that is too small to fit all of the Mighty Nein comfortably, but they squeeze together anyway. Yasha is to his left; Caleb to his right. They are all three pressed shoulder to shoulder and the tavern is stuffy and heavy with smoke from a group of dwarves enjoying pipes nearby, but despite the fact that it should be overwhelming and unpleasant, Molly relishes in the sensations, presses a little closer to Caleb who is buried nose deep in a book, and he swallows a large swing of ale, strong and bitter with a sweet kick at the end, and breathes.

Across from him, Jester is munching on a donut while Beau pulls out some of her now infamous pocket bacon. He asks for a piece and she gives it with over without complaint. He feels the grease that has solidified on the meat, which is slightly undercooked to his tastes, but he takes a bite anyway, the saltiness not quite pleasant against the ale he’s just enjoyed, but he wants to experience it all; the good and the bad, pocket bacon and all. He offers the rest to Caleb, who takes it without even looking up from his book, and their fingers brush. He feels Caleb tense beside him- an instinctive reaction Molly is un-offended by, before easing back into his slouch as he nibbles on the bacon and continues to read.

When their hands meet under the table several minutes later, both of their digits are slightly greasy, but neither seem inclined to move their hand away.

*

They’re traveling at a relatively quick pace, and Molly is copying Jester’s usual habit of standing on the cart, hands braced on Fjord’s shoulders as he closes his eyes and feels the wind and rain wash over him. The air is cool and the rain stings a little as it pelts him, but he merely throws his head back and lets himself be bathed in the heavy summer shower that caught them by surprise. He’s soaked through by the time they make camp, and he wraps his coat in his hands, wringing out the water, watching as the droplets burst against his boots. His hair is limp and hanging in his face and he can’t help but to smile as Jester reaches over and pushes it out of his eyes. When he joins them by the campfire, he takes pleasure in the feeling of cold, numb hands slowly regaining warmth, the rushing flow of blood almost too loud in his ears. 

*

  
Unable to help himself one night while he and Caleb are keeping watch, he reaches over and runs one finger over the page of the book Caleb is focused on. The wizard looks up, confused, and Molly has the decency to flush and shrug.  
  
“Just wanted to feel the paper,” he says softly, and after a moment's hesitation, Caleb scoots closer, motions for Molly to pull his knees to his chest, and lays the book open on their touching thighs. Caleb reads aloud, voice barely above a whisper while Molly looks at the horizon beyond them, one hand idly brushing over the edges of the pages. They are rough and make a pleasant sound as they slip from his fingers at a rapid rate and soon the sound becomes as natural as the chirping crickets and the crackling of the dying campfire.

*

Frumpkin’s fur is soft; luxuriously soft. Molly finds himself idly petting the cat’s head, enjoying the gentle vibrations of Frumpkin’s purrs as he lounges on Molly’s lap. Molly’s hand brushes the fur back, then slides his fingers forward to push the hair the opposite direction, making it stand up in a wild mess of orange, before smoothing it back down once more. He’s so soft, so calming, and the monotonous motion of stroking the fur back and forth, the soothing rumble of satisfaction from Frumpkin, and the steady bounce of the carriage as they slowly make their way down the road eventually lulls Molly to sleep. When he wakes, he feels the hardness of the wood at his back and underneath him, the chill in the air as they move further north, and the soft warmth of his hand still cradles in Frumpkin’s fur.  
  
He’s covered in cat hair when he stands later, and he laughs as he brushes the strands from his coat, watching as they dance in the air as they float away.

*

Similar to Frumpkin, Molly’s fingers find their way into the coarse feather’s of Kiri’s head one evening as she sits with them at a tavern, too young to partake in the rowdier aspects of their revelry but enjoying the company and attention nonetheless. She says something endearing- which happens nearly every time she speaks- and Molly can do nothing more than laugh and ruffle the feathers on her head. She puffs up with pride and affection, cooing and clicking in delight, and his hand stays there for some time, feeling the texture of the feathers, strong and pliable, making up a coarse but comforting smoothness. She cuddles against him after a time and mutters, “Welcome to the Mighty Nein.”

*

On nights when he can’t sleep- whether from strange dreams he’d rather not face or the pure and simple desire to not be asleep- he braids Yasha’s hair. She says nothing, merely sits still and contemplative as he combs his fingers through her hair, smoothing out the tangles as best he can before twisting them into a braid. Sometimes it’s fancy and ornate and takes him over an hour to accomplish; sometimes it’s a simple twisting back-and-forth, one strand crossing over another. He rubs his fingers over the coarse leather ribbon that is draped over his knee then ties it around the end of her braid, throwing it over her shoulder as he remarks upon the quality of his work. Yasha thanks him with a quiet nod and keeps the braid in until it ultimately falls out from being jostled by travel and fighting. Or until he can’t keep his fingers still again; which more often than not comes sooner.

*

His tarot cards offer a similar comfort. He tells Beau that people come to him looking for a path and he tries to direct them on the best one. He sometimes bullshits; he sometimes doesn’t. But he always holds them in his hands when they go for long stretches of travel or when he’s on watch. He shuffles them, flips them back and forth with an ever-growing dexterity, flipping them between fingers with speed and grace.

He never reads his own fortune.

He doesn’t want to remember his past; doesn’t want to know his future. He merely wants to live in the moment, and he doesn’t need cards to tell him that he’s on borrowed time. He knows that as innately as he knows how to speak Infernal, or summon ice on his blade. He knows it as well as he knows that Caleb is traumatized by fire, that Nott can’t help but steal shiny objects, that Jester likes sweets, or that Fjord is a mystery he can’t solve. So he flips them between his fingers and shuffles them and lets the fragile material of the deck slide over his fingers to distract him from what he doesn’t want to see.

*

The gold coin is equally smooth and rough in his hand. Heavy in his palm, waiting to be spent, he rotates the coin around his fingers in an impressive show, then snatches it into his palm and making it disappear. He pulls it out from behind Jester’s ear and she laughs and claps and proclaims aloud that Molly is the greatest and he smiles and thumbs the ridges of the coin. He’s not used to having so much gold; he’s even less used to having people he wants to spend it on. He splurges at every opportunity: the finest rooms and the finest wine at every tavern for his friends. Company for himself when he feels like it. Food and drink and that ridiculous and impractical tapestry that he swears he will never get rid of because it’s a _thing_ now, and he’s committed to the bit, no matter how unwieldy the damn thing is. It’s beautifully woven and he likes to run his fingers over it, tracing the image of a deity he doesn’t believe in. He wonders what touching a platinum dragon would feel like: would it be hard and cold? Would it be oddly warm? Would the scales be rough like a reptiles or would there be an unnatural smoothness to it?

As he fiddles with the coin, he catches out of the corner of his eye the sight of Caleb slinking upstairs to his room on the upper floor of the tavern, and no one else seems the wiser. The room is noisy: Jester and Beau have challenged an elf and a dwarf to a drinking contest and the entire room is now apparently invested in the outcome of the contest. Cheers and shouts echo all around; Molly is bumped by a patron who clamors to put some of his own gold into the pot.

Molly’s been debating on whether to back his friends or the other team, just for shits and giggles. He doesn’t care if he wins or loses, just wants to be a part of something that seems to be bringing the entire room a small amount of joy. But now that he’s seen Caleb sneak out, another debate flares into his mind and he glances between the door and the crowd. Does he wish to please a room full of people, most of whom he barely knows, or go after a man he’s only seen smile once? He takes a breath, makes a mental note, then flips the coin into the air. It lands in his palm with a dull smack, and the warmth of his fingers has seeped into the metal. He glances down. Smirks.

He pockets the coin, runs his hand over the sticky hardness of the bar countertop, and follows Caleb upstairs.

*

Caleb’s hair is coarse, like Kiri’s. His lips are soft, like silk or the petals of a freshly picked flower meant for Yasha’s book. His skin is warm, like the campfire warming his fingers from the icy chill of rain. His clothes are rumpled and torn; the buttons cool and hard against Molly’s fingers as he quickly and clumsily undoes them, the sound of heavy fabric hitting the floor with a satisfying thud following immediately thereafter. His body is thin, and Molly can feel the ridges where ribs protrude and shoulder blades stick out over tautly stretched skin.

Molly’s hands move without thought, caressing and touching and teasing with the same eagerness he approaches all things in life. He tastes the ale on Caleb’s lips, his tongue wet and hot against his own. He swallows the sigh Caleb releases as Molly’s hand moves downward, lightly touching, committing the feel of Caleb to memory.

He drinks him in like the finest wine; he’s tasted the finest wines the world has to offer- Beau’s expertise leading him to the best flavors imaginable- but they all pale in comparison to the taste of Caleb. He breathes him in like it’s the first breath he’s taken in ages, the smell of ink and parchment and an electric sort of unidentifiable energy that can only stem from magic filling his senses. He smells ash and smoke and musk and earth, and it all blends together into a heady, overwhelming scent that Molly wants to fill his lungs and never release.

*

Molly relishes the shivers, thrills in the goosebumps that spring to life across Caleb’s skin, loves to smooth them away and cause more to appear elsewhere. He relishes in the heat and warmth of being buried within his lover, the feeling of sweat making their skin slick and sticky as he thrusts, hands gripping the cool material of the sheets as he loses himself to the feeling of white hot pleasure.

Molly likes to touch. It reminds him that he’s alive. But he finds that nothing- not the hot or cold, soft or hard, smooth or rough, sharp or dull- none of it compares to the burning touch of Caleb’s slender fingers brushing against countless his scars, his lips following the trail set by curious and tentative hands. Nothing compares to the sensation of Caleb’s breath against his cheek as he whispers, “I love you,” as they fall into exhausted sleep. Nothing compares to the overwhelming joy Molly feels when Caleb- smooth and rough and soft and hard and warm and sharp Caleb- pulls him into a loving embrace, and in those treasured moments, the only thing Molly can feel is love.

 


End file.
